


like a fire in the blood

by parcequelle



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Community: femslashex, F/F, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-26 16:07:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5011105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parcequelle/pseuds/parcequelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She thinks she probably should have seen this coming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like a fire in the blood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alexandria (heartfullofelves)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartfullofelves/gifts).



> Written as a treat for Alexandria for femslashex2015 - I saw Gwen/Tosh on your request list and read your letter and then BAM, here this was. I do hope you enjoy! :)

Gwen's flat burns down, flames up and spits and crackles into an amorphous mountain of black, and as she sits and overturns the charred remains of her photo frames, she thinks that she probably should have seen this coming.

If Gwen's learnt anything from Torchwood, it's that you can't afford to dismiss anything as implausible. Her life has become a clutter of things irrational and bizarre: she talks to the dead, she snogs alien girls, she works for a man who's as good as immortal, and she's no longer as quick as she was to scorn superstition. So when her mobile phone comes to life and tries to kill her, then Rhys walks away, then her flat burns down, all in the space of a week, Gwen reasons: bad things come in threes.

She shows up to work with a headache and yesterday's clothing, and Ianto, all twisted mouth and poorly disguised concern, squints at her sideways like he isn’t sure whether to risk it. All he says is, “Morning, Gwen,” but he brings her a cup of coffee before she can get around to asking, and he smiles at her a smile that says _I'm here if you need to talk_. She smiles back, accepts the coffee but leaves the unspoken offer.  
   
Tosh comes in just after Ianto's gone, and she turns, smiling, takes one look at Gwen's crumpled shirt and smudged mascara and rushes over. "What is it?" she asks, hands clasping Gwen's biceps. "What's happened? Are you all right?"

Gwen tells a fractured story as the shock catches up and spills over, and she shakes her head and blinks hard against the temptation to burst into tears. She feels more than hears her voice quiver, but then Tosh is pulling Gwen into her arms, stroking soft hands through her hair, and Gwen is too tired and too tense to resist Tosh's warmth.

After a minute, Tosh pulls back to study her face with compassionate eyes; Gwen stops mumbling long enough to stare back, to wonder at what she's done to deserve such attention, such gentle concern. Her skin is cool in the sudden absence of Tosh's body pressed against hers, and Gwen wonders at how much she'd liked it, but then Tosh is shaking her head and saying, "You slept in a B&B last night? That's ridiculous, Gwen. You're staying with me," and the statement is so decisive that Gwen has to nod.

*

Tosh sets her up on the fold-out sofa bed in her living room, and she bundles piles of pillows and blankets around Gwen's head and over Gwen's body and she asks Gwen twenty times if she's comfortable. The tender attention takes Gwen by surprise; she's so flattered and grateful and touched and confused that the words tangle up on her tongue until  _thank you_  eludes her.

Tosh insists on tucking her in, and once she's checked and double-checked and she's sure of Gwen's comfort, she ducks her chin and smiles, almost shy. "Sleep well, Gwen," Tosh says, and she moves to leave, but before she can walk out the door Gwen reaches out to catch her right hand.

Gwen thinks she hears Tosh inhale when she locks and twines their fingers, strokes her thumb down the ridge of Tosh's palm, and she's sure she hears Tosh squeak when she grazes a nail across the inside of her wrist. Enchanted, Gwen watches the flush rise from Tosh's cheeks and spread up to her eyes; she smiles when Tosh tries to hide it, tells her, "You're beautiful, Tosh." And she raises her eyes, still shy, to smile back.

She understands. She says: "You're welcome."

*

Gwen falls asleep with the curve of that smile in her mind and dreams of Tosh, dreams Tosh's lips on her neck and Tosh's hands on her skin and Tosh's voice, low and rasping and warm in her ear. She falls asleep and dreams of Tosh and wakes suddenly, flustered and panting and wet, her skin tingling, her fringe beaded with sweat.

For a minute, she lies still in the dark, listening to the rush of her breath. Her eyes are wide, her nerves ablaze, and she runs the back of her hand down her stomach and over her hipbone, meets warmth and perspiration with a shiver. She shakes her head, tries to shake away her overwhelming urge to stand up, go down the hallway, go to Tosh right now and show her exactly what’s been going through her mind; she clenches her fist, bites her lip to keep from groaning.  _Gwen_ , she tells herself desperately,  _this isn’t helping_.

She decides that the answer is logic, that rational thought and preventative action won’t fail her. She'll get up, she'll walk around, she'll cool off and calm down and she'll work this heat out of her system, then all will be well.

She nods, convinced of the plan, and she pushes her blankets aside. Stands up, turns around—

—to find Tosh, leaning placidly against her living room wall, her face flecked in shadow and moonlight. The sleeve of her robe has slipped down past her shoulder, and she’s wearing the ghost of a smile. "Bad dream?" she asks, without moving. All trace of her shyness is gone, and Gwen is intensely aware of it. She’s also beginning to suspect that Tosh's reserve is all an act, a façade designed to wear down people’s defences and self-restraint and catch them off-guard.

Case in point, Gwen realises that her mouth is still hanging open, so she closes it, drags her eyes from the wing of Tosh's collarbone. "Not exactly," she manages, reaching for an ease she can't feel. "How long have you been there? You know, standing there?"

Tosh says, "Long enough," and shrugs as though Gwen isn't wide-eyed and squirming before her. "Can you not sleep? Can I get you something?" But there's a twist in the way she articulates  _something_  that makes Gwen think this might have moved a step or two beyond standard hospitality. She could be misconstruing the whole situation – she's not exactly level-headed right now, after all – but this thing is stirring hot and persistent inside her, and what has she got to lose? She has no flat, she has no boyfriend, and Tosh is right in front her wearing a slinky nightdress and a sly, suggestive smile.

Heart pounding, Gwen tells her, "That depends on what were you thinking."

Tosh cocks her head, smothers a smile. "I was thinking, traditional remedies for insomnia? Warm milk or some camomile tea, maybe a midnight snack?" Her gaze flickers down to Gwen's lips as she says that, and Gwen knows she hasn’t misconstrued a thing. She doesn't reply with words, but strides the few remaining steps between them and pushes Tosh up against the wall, kisses her hard and wet and fast before then she pulls back, gasping for breath, to say, "Something like that?"

And Tosh hisses a confirmation and kisses her back, her lips hard and hot against Gwen’s, insistent and desperate, and it surprises them both how quickly and how well they fit together. Gwen slides Tosh's robe off her shoulders, slides her hands down Tosh's back and over the curve of her arse and back up, touching everywhere she can reach, never breaking contact. She kisses open-mouthed and hungry down Tosh's neck, long sweeps of her tongue over sensitive skin, and she tangles her hands in Tosh’s hair to tilt her head up.

Tosh is breathless and moaning as Gwen nibbles along her collarbone, her frustrated hands scrabbling at the clinging material of Gwen's singlet, her fingers pushing up to tease Gwen's nipples through her bra.

"Gwen," Tosh growls impatiently, when she feels the cumbersome material under her thumb. "You still have this on?" She breaks away from her only to tug Gwen's shirt over her head and fling it aside. "That's better," she mumbles, before she slams her lips against Gwen's again, her hands reaching around for the clasp.

Gwen inhales sharply, arching into Tosh’s touch, and Tosh does her thing.

*

They wake where they landed last night, sprawled over Gwen’s makeshift bed; blankets in disarray, pillows entwined around their legs. Gwen watches with one eye half-open as Tosh rises, quick and lithe, and locates her robe in the crumpled heap beside the sofa where it spent the night. Gwen is thinking about pretending to still be asleep when Tosh turns and smiles at her, kindly. “Good morning, Gwen.”

“Good morning,” Gwen says, and coughs; her throat is dry. She sits up, remembers she's naked and goes to draw the sheet up over her body, but Tosh has already turned around to head for the kitchen.

“I'll put on some coffee,” she calls as she goes. “We don't want to be late.” And that, Gwen supposes, is her own cue to get up and get dressed.

They drive to work together in mostly comfortable silence, Tosh pensive, fingers tapping arrhythmically against the steering wheel, Gwen still too drained to think about conversation. She isn't worried about the others; they all knew she was staying with Tosh, so at least having to explain why she's still wearing her spare clothes from yesterday isn't going to be an awkward challenge. At 7:59, Tosh turns on the radio, and they sit there at the intersection, listening to the BBC weather report. _Severe storm warning for Cardiff and its outer suburbs_ , the announcer is saying, resigned.

Gwen looks over at Tosh, who is looking at the radio. “Probably aliens,” she quips.

Tosh smiles a little. “Probably, yes.”

They lapse into silence again, and it isn't long before they reach Torchwood, pull in to park. Gwen unsnaps her seatbelt and has a hand on the door when she realises Tosh isn't moving; she turns back, drops her hand. “Tosh?” she says, gentler than she expects to. “Are you all right?” 

“Look, Gwen,” Tosh says. “I understand if you want to forget it ever happened.” She says it with a measured precision of words that seem to Gwen only half-sincere.

Gwen nods, slowly. “I understand if that's what _you_ want.”

Tosh has been staring down at her twiddling thumbs, but now she looks up. “Is it--” she swallows. “Is it what you want?”

“Honestly? No,” Gwen says. “But if you aren't sure, or you don't feel comfortable, then--”

“It isn't that,” Tosh says, and there's a tiny line between her eyes that Gwen wants to stroke away with her thumb. “I wanted it, I still want it--” and damn if that doesn't make new desire flare hot deep down in Gwen's belly, despite her tiredness-- “I just wouldn't have planned for it to happen like that, you see? I don’t usually make a habit of taking advantage of my house guests.” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Gwen. You were vulnerable and trusting me and it was entirely inappropriate, and—”

“Hey, don’t I get a say?” Gwen interrupts. She reaches out to cup Tosh's face, gives in to the temptation to stroke down over forehead, her cheek. “First of all, don’t apologise. I think you’ll agree it was mutual, wasn’t it?”

Tosh colours a little, bites down on her lip, says, “Yes.”

“Second, I don’t want to forget that it happened. It happened, and we’ll deal with it as grown women should. Okay?”

Tosh nods. “And how's that?”

“By going inside and acting normal so the boys don't tease us for weeks on end.”

Tosh laughs. “All right,” she agrees. They get out of the car and walk up into the hub together, their shoulders brushing. Just outside, before they go in, Tosh turns and squeezes Gwen's arm, gives her a smile. “Thanks,” she says.

Gwen shoots her a grin. “Thank me later.”


End file.
